Forgiving My Father

My father left when I was nine. He went to another city with another woman and didn't come back. For twenty years I told people he was dead. It was easier than explaining. My mother raised three children alone and never said one bad word about him. I said enough for both of us.

Last year he found me on social media. He was old and sick and wanted to meet. I said no. Then I said no again. Then, on a night when I couldn't sleep, I asked my mother what she thought. She said, "He's not your father. He's just a man. Go and look at him, and then decide."

I went. He was smaller than I remembered, and he cried, and I didn't. We talked for an hour. He said sorry many times. I said I heard him. I haven't forgiven him, exactly. But I've stopped saying he's dead. That's the first step, and I don't know if there's a second.